Rifts
by The Ink Thief
Summary: AU. Lord Voldemort is the ruler of the now first class-magical zone of Wizarding Britain. 'Hadrian Black' is a superstar hiding more than just a name behind a pseudonym. What could possibly go wrong?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Considering he was the ruler of Wizarding Britain, Tom Riddle wasn't exactly in the habit of attending concerts - especially not of the variety in which there were an alarming amount of screaming teenage girls in the crowds.

Nonetheless, 'Lightning' were apparently the band everyone was into at the moment, and so he was obligated to show his support for the nation's best and brightest.

He found the whole set up horribly stuffy. Despite how everyone knew his name, Hadrian Black seemed to favour more intimate settings for his gigs as if he was still a non-existent indie band and not the musical phenomenon he'd become.

Tom cared little for such trivialities, when he had far more important things to be concerned with - like the dregs of the Order of the Phoenix and the Resistance, furthering his own agenda in a Ministry that was still relatively new, or avoiding war with other countries.

Every child knew the story of the Second Great Wizarding War, and of his victory and control over the country. Britain was now a first class magical zone, where muggles were related to secondary citizens, kept alive solely for cheap labour and their ability to potentially create muggleborns in a society that was becoming increasingly inbred.

They needed fresh blood, though he hadn't anticipated such things in his youth and the early stages of his regime.

Nonetheless, his utopia and perfect society was up and running, taking its first baby steps from the bloodshed and immeasurable sacrifice of the battles.

Dumbledore had fled, and had become only a minor threat now, skulking in the shadows and clinging to a prophecy that weighed on his mind also. The Potters had been killed as the last marker and turning point, their deaths bringing the first point of the frigid peace that had followed for almost thirteen years now.

Their child survived. A boy, who he'd attempted to kill that night, whisked to safety before he could get to him. But he got the parents, and he knew it was only a matter of time until he caught up with this 'saviour' too.

He didn't know if it was that boy, or the Longbottom child, but he assumed it was Potter because Longbottom was dead and his parents a drooling mess in St Mungos.

He just wished he knew his name; the child had vanished from all record, in the last acts of defiance and rebellion by his parents, and seemed to be under some kind of protection which meant it could not be spoken, or remembered without the indication of whoever it was who kept the secret.

He would have asked Pettigrew - he hadn't paid much attention to first names at the time - but the rat was dead, killed by the blood traitor Black.

The Prophecy, subsequently, taken out of the Ministry and placed instead in a heavily warded cabinet in his private office, continued to frustrate him.

S.B.T to A.P.W.B.D  
Dark Lord and ?

All in all, there were a million other things he could be doing then listening to some popular music gig done by some brat. Nonetheless, he sat in his box, feeling utterly out of place, much more comfortable in political conferences though he could wear whatever facade he needed to well enough, and made sure his expression was carefully composed into something which wasn't utter boredom.

That changed when the boy actually strolled on stage.

His eyes slowly started to widen.

* * *

In all honesty, Harry absolutely hated the fame. Considering how he'd been used to anonymity - hell, being ignored by the Dursley's for eleven years at least - having everyone know his name, or at least his pseudonym, was both unnerving and incredibly annoying.

Still, he liked the music well enough, and more pointedly the opportunities it allowed him.

When one was the nation's favourite singer/songwriter, there was a rather steady flood of invitations to events and points of interest within the new Wizarding community.

He hadn't always been a rebel; he'd spent the first eleven years as an utter nobody in a small muggle village in Germany, and then after that had been running and hiding around Europe trying to get a grip on his magical abilities, before attending Hogwarts for a few brief years at the age of fifteen.

It was there that he met and made friends with Hermione.

He didn't know what Hogwarts used to be, but he hadn't enjoyed his schooling that much. It had been rigidly efficient, and stony with students wary of the threat hanging over them of entering the world, still reeling from a generation born out of blood.

The Hierarchy in Britain was simple: Death Eaters, Purebloods, Halfbloods, Muggleborns, Squibs and finally Muggles, at the crap of the heap.

He himself was a halfblood, though for a long time his identity had been something very different.

He met the Order of the Phoenix when he was seventeen, though he'd never much liked the state of affairs before than either.

He had to admit that his current status provided ample opportunities for sabotage and infiltration.

Of course, it would be even better if he could keep his mouth shut, and not want to punch someone whenever their esteemed ruler, Lord Voldemort, came up as a topic of conversation, but nonetheless.

Everyone backstage had been excited that the man was here tonight, though few knew what he actually looked like. He played his part accordingly, smiling, and noticed scarlet eyes watching him from the best box in the house.

Voldemort may have had the political power and a standing army and whatever else, but people didn't really like him, even if they were quiet about it. He himself had very little influence over Government and anyone of weight, but he was very popular and liked, so maybe he could use that to his advantage.

He felt like a bloody trick pony. He knew the Dark Lord probably wanted to use him to better his own image, and that he would have to tread very carefully here.

He was at the bar now, in the after party, and couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't something similar between celebrities and politicians. Both required a mask to fit into their arenas - he needed to come across harmless, fun, perhaps a little roguish (Sirius, to whom he'd dedicated the last name, had been a great help with that part). As their dark overlord, Voldemort no doubt had to keep up a facade of constant control and intimidation.

Not that he sympathised with the bastard.

He paused as a drink was slid in front of him, and someone took a seat, and did his best to keep from stiffening.

"Why are you a singer?" the question was asked bluntly, without any opening greeting or introduction, and Harry blinked.

He didn't know what he'd expected from their esteemed overlord, but it wasn't to find him at an after party full of drunken people, without a slimy introduction and boast.

For a second, he was convinced that the man knew, as he turned his head slowly to face the other. With the young face and full head of raven locks, Harry was personally convinced of a glamour.

Vain git.

"Because I like singing," he replied, dryly, automatically. "Most people start with a hello, or are you above all that, my lord?"

"Please," he received a tight, carefully charming smile. "I saw no reason for introductions. You know who I am, evidently, as you do not leave under a rock, and I know who you are, because I do in fact read the news."

Harry didn't know what he'd expected.

"It's polite," he replied.

It wasn't this.

"Do you have a particular inclination to spend five minutes on small talk?" The Dark Lord raised his eyebrows. Harry took a sip of his drink, not touching the one bought for him, and tried to figure out how the hell he was supposed to behave.

He had expected to meet the man who murdered his parents eventually, but not like this. Never like this. The worst part was, for the greater good, that he couldn't do anything about it.

His mouth felt unbearably dry.

"What would be talking about instead?" he tried for a grin, a little goofy. "I don't know much about politics, and you don't look like a man who knows much about guitars. No offence. Voldemort"

Damn it. This wasn't going right.  
He'd blame the alcohol for why he wasn't scraping and bowing.

"You don't seem very frightened of me."

"I see no reason to be. There'd be a public uproar if Lord Voldemort murdered me in a bar. I doubt you want that."

The other's head tilted.  
"You also use my name, Hadrian."

Harry had never felt more awkward in his life, and he thought he'd been getting good at this type of thing.

"He-who-must-not-be-named is a bit of a mouthful, and you-know-who could be referring to anyone, really," he offered lightly, receiving a hum in response.

Why was the man talking to him?

Probably for status points or something, he didn't know.

The Dark Lord stared at him for several long moments, gaze unwavering, seeming to sear straight through him.

"I'm throwing a dinner next week. Friday. Seven O clock. Someone will send you the address."  
Voldemort stood up, and Harry stared at him. He didn't feel so much as invited as ordered to attend. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

"I'm busy."

The Dark Wizard turned to stare at him, an almost incredulous air to him. The air around him sharpened and crystalized to something colder, those eyes disconcerting red eyes turning dark, menacing, much more like the feared leader of Armies in the stories he'd heard, than the ruthless if charming Politician he paraded about as nowadays.

Harry wished he'd kept his mouth shut, wetted his lips, refused to drop his gaze.

He still suspected a glamour.

The other offered him another, all too pleasant smile.

"I'm sure you can reschedule, Hadrian. I'd very much like to see you there."

He swept out without another word, and other faces quickly replaced him.

Harry stared at the scotch in front of him and tried to control his heartbeat.

It had begun.

* * *

**Reviews would be great, please, thank you! So I know if this story is worth continuing :) I hope you like the start, even if prologues/first chapters don't tend to be the best. Maybe that's just me :P**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two:

Harry moved quietly through the street, gesturing for the two muggleborns to follow him.

In a Britain that was increasingly hostile towards their kind, despite how they were also held up as a necessity, more and more 'mudbloods' were looking for passage out of the country, to France, or anywhere else where they could slip past more unnoticed and less discriminated again.

He helped them with that, when he could.  
Cries for help were established under the pretense of fan mail, and fan gatherings led to escape. It was perfect, elaborate, but perfect.

Albus Dumbledore was a very clever man.

Upon joining the order, Harry found himself moving quickly up the ranks, and whilst he couldn't claim himself the role of lieutenant, he was one of their top agents, he knew.

"Come on," he whispered, "we're almost there. Just into here."

He slipped into Hermione's area. Hermione travelled with him, seeing as society saw fit to put a clamp on her own ambitions. She was his lawyer, his best friend, and his partner in crime.

He knocked three times on the door, before ushering the two muggleborn girls in. Being female, in this regime, was infinitely worse when everything was prized on blood lines, and their continuation.

They exchanged a few quick words, hushed in secrecy, before he had to go back to his everyday life. He couldn't be missing from parties and the like for too long - not longer than anyone would assume he'd just spent some time kissing some girl, or whatever else.

"Hermione has set you up with some passports, and all the relevant information you will need. On arrival to Paris, look for the Tabby Cat curiosity shop, there you will find Madame McGonagall. She will help you into the next stages of your journey," Harry whispered. "Good luck."

He received a hug flung over his neck in return, a whispered thank you, and Hermione in turn a wide, tremulous and frightened smile, which she returned with comforting words as she led them down to the passageways in the cellar.

The door shut.

Harry hurried back to fame and frivolity.  
He did not think about his dinner invite.

* * *

Tom couldn't help but feel frustrated as he looked around his dinner table, and, more specifically, the empty seat.

No, more than frustrated - he could feel a cold fury seeping through his skin, which darkened the room around him and had his guests staring at their food with a greater intent, unsure of why they felt so uneasy when to all visible eyes he was still smiling and acting perfectly pleasant.

Hadrian had neglected to turn up.

He had killed people for less. Did he really think just because he was some famous brat stuck on the walls of fourteen year old girls that he had any right to refuse his lord and master?

Of course, he'd already gathered that there was something different about Hadrian Black, as he was called, and it wasn't star quality either.

The boy was powerful. Incredibly powerful. He'd sensed it the second the child had swaggered his way on stage to his swooning audience.

Why would someone so powerful settle for being a singer?  
He was supposedly a muggleborn, despite the name. He couldn't be. The lineage wouldn't be that powerful. And the boy reminded him of someone, though infuriatingly enough he couldn't think who.

He'd had Lucius look into the boy. Everything in his cover story certainly seemed to check out. Raised in a small village in Germany by his relatives, a Mr and Mrs Durnswell. Attended Hogwarts briefly, being homeschooled before the age of fifteen. Average student, nothing special. Fantastic flyer, average in everything else, poor in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions.

He should, by all merits, be some boy who fluked out with good looks and singing talent, and a smidgen of luck on top of that.

But he was powerful. It was the only jarring point. And he didn't even act powerful.  
Was Hadrian even aware of it? He had to be. But either way, such things couldn't be left unchecked and he either had to securely recruit the boy, or find a way to subtly dispose of him if he proved to be trouble.

Like he was currently trouble.

The fact that the boy hadn't turned up, that he'd been audaciously defiant enough to refuse such an invitation when he'd made it so clear, was appalling and pointed.

He couldn't remember the last time anyone had done that to him - refused him anything! He would have been amused, perhaps respected the courage involved, if he wasn't so irritated by the whole affair.

It itched beneath his skin.

He much preferred getting his own way, and he always would in the end.

For now, he took another sip from his champagne flute, turned to give Bellatrix a smile and to talk to his other guests as he mingled.

And plotted.

* * *

When Harry received a second summons, he sincerely considered not going.

Unfortunately, people had seen him receive the letter - one of the man's lackeys had hand delivered it, with no care of being discreet either.

He couldn't refuse, not when paparazzi had such a dangerous habit of trying to stick to his heels. It would make him stand out too much, make him seem like too much of a rebel, and for the sake of his actual activities and the good he was doing, he couldn't afford to be seen as someone like that. He couldn't seem a threat.

Even if it meant having dinner with the man who'd murdered his parents.

Then again, Voldemort had probably killed a lot of people's parents, but that didn't quell his rage to want to stab the monster in the face.

Besides, maybe this was a good thing - it would allow him better room to infiltrate, sabotage, and deliver some actual blows to the man's atrocious regime.

It was good what he was doing, and he was glad to help, and stepping up his game could make that impossible if his cover was blown...but surely he had to take his chances were he could get them?

At the moment, he was treating the symptoms, surely it would be much better if he could treat the cause?

Lord Voldemort was notoriously difficult to kill, and a phenomenal duellist, but Harry felt he had the advantage of surprise. If he could get close enough, he could assassinate, or even just tear the whole smokescreen of a utopia down by the shreds and stomp on it.

The thought swelled in his chest.  
Then Hermione would be free to be as brilliant as she could, the remaining Weasleys could return to the country, along with everyone else and this whole blotch and shadow would be cast aside.

They could start afresh, away from tyranny and oppression.

He sighed, gave a tight smile and replied that he would be there this time.

So that was why he was here now.

It was rumoured that the Dark Lord had many different bases throughout Britain, to make the possibility of someone sneaking in less. They could only ever get fragments, pieces.

Harry suspected he even had more than one home.  
One that was actually home, and then the house that everybody knew about. It was an intimidating, if aesthetically pleasing sight, heavily warded. A veritable modern day fortress smack in the centre of London, as if the man wasn't repulsively arrogant enough in his dictatorship already.

Harry was shocked he hadn't taken over Buckingham bloody Palace, considering how much he hated muggles - but the royal family had been allowed to stay, trapped and puppeted straw figures as a mouthpiece to the rest of muggle society, just another shackle to clamp order on a society still teaming violent below the surface.

No, the Medwin Tower was steel and glass and obsidian. Everything hard and cold.

Hell, Harry would have happily renamed it the Tower of Sauron if he could.

He stepped in, suddenly feeling very small. Inside was just as elaborate as the outside, and it only emphasized to Harry that this was a place of public function. Though there was a certain spin of ruthless efficiency that fit the Dark Lord. It didn't seem very homely.

Maybe he was wrong. He didn't know. His feet clacked against the floor as he followed, looking around himself with involuntarily wide eyes.

It was bloody impressive. He hated to admit it, but it was. And everywhere there were signs of magic. Maybe that was the one thing he could say was good about Voldemort - he prized magic, and knew exactly what to do with it.

He was led into a large dining room and...there was just the Dark Lord there.

Harry's insides ran cold. This was dinner, right? Not execution. Maybe he'd be poisoned for his refusal. He'd expected more people.

His heart hammered in his chest, and he suddenly couldn't help thinking that as awful as a fully-fledged political dinner full of snooty purebloods was, being alone and the sole focus of the man's attention was even worse.

_What the hell had he done?_

He inclined his head, forced himself to bow, and give a smile.  
"My lord, thank you for having me."

"Hadrian, how good that you could make it this time. Please, sit down."  
A pale hand gestured at the table. Harry resisted the urge to swallow, sat down, accepted the wine that was poured for him by a servant.

"I prefer Harry."

Scarlet eyes watched him closely. He felt sick. Wondered how he was going to stomach anything. His hands were mercifully steady as he reached out, took a sip of his own drink. It didn't taste spiked, but that didn't mean anything.

"I prefer Hadrian," the Dark Lord replied, smoothly. "Far more noble. Less common."

They made an attempt at stiff small talk as the food was served, delicious and exquisitely looking little snacks presented on gleaming white plates.

Did the man eat like this all the time?

"I was surprised to receive your invitation, my lord," Harry said, after a while, glancing up to meet the red eyes still unnervingly fixed upon his person. Did he know? Surely he couldn't, or they wouldn't be having a conversation over dinner. He would be dead, or locked up somewhere and tortured.

"I was marginally surprised that you deigned to grace me with your presence this time," Voldemort said lightly. Harry wetted his lips.

"I did say I was busy."

"Hm. What was it that you were busy with, a...fan gathering, from what I managed to conclude? You're very dedicated to them."

"Well, they brought me where I am today," Harry said. "They're my living. I'd be stupid to turn away their support and take them for granted."

"Ah yes. Not often a national sensation isn't part of a large corporate image, especially these days."

"I prefer a personal touch. The fans mean a lot to me."

"So I noticed at your concert. I dare say a larger, state funded stadium would fit your needs better though," the man said, delicately. Harry's brow furrowed, just slightly.

"I suppose, my lord."

Voldemort gave him a smile, and Harry didn't believe for one second it was real, despite how there was nothing to indicate that.

"It is very pleasing for me to see such creativity come out of this new world. The first signs of fruition, I should think. I was very impressed."

Where was this going?

"Thank you, my lord. That means a lot. Coming from you."

"Does it?" the words were light, but there was something mocking about them, something knowing. Harry's fingers tightened around his wineglass.

"Of course," he said, as smoothly as he could, forcing another smile. "You're a man of very high regard and rumoured impeccable taste. I'm flattered by your approval."

"And surprised by it," Voldemort murmured, slipping another soft slice of meat in between his lips. "Doesn't the lines in one of your songs go like - 'the music is dead when it kills to be outspoken, your smile looks so perfect when the whole world is broken'?"

Harry felt a slight flush grow on the back of his neck, even as he could recognize the comment there. He wasn't always the most regime friendly lyricist, he couldn't actually bring himself to sing the songs of bloody praise.

"Everyone has that one 'fuck the government song', excuse my language, my lord. It doesn't mean anything." He gave a small, innocent laugh. "Teenage rebellion is a brand of its own that's always existed. You can't take it seriously. What, you think a bunch of teenagers are going to pick up the pitchforks over one line?"

His heart hammered wildly in his chest. Voldemort said nothing immediately.

"You are a curious case, Mr Black."

"I'm sorry?"

"Why is that you take on the guise of a foolish, immature party boy, when it is clear that you are in fact a very powerful and intelligent wizard?" Voldemort questioned.

Harry's insides lurched with unease.

"I'm not entirely sure I know what you're talking about. I mean, I'm not thick, but I hardly think I'm at your level or anything to be considered smart. I mean, I did alright at school, but-"

"Do you believe I am so egotistical that switching to flattery will divert my attention from the matter at hand?"

Harry's mouth felt dry.

"I'm not-"

"Answer the question. Why the pretense, and how long did you think it would go unnoticed?"

Harry sighed, wetted his lips, thought quickly.

"I'm a muggleborn, sir. Does the fact I am a powerful make any difference under your regime when your policies belie the existence of people like me?"

The man blinked at him, Harry set his cutlery down.

"I think I should go," he continued."Thank you for the meal. It was delicious. I won't impose on your time further."

He was at the door when that cool voice stopped him.  
"Normally, Mr Black, when people take the guise of something weaker than themselves, it is because they are hiding something. What are you hiding, Hadrian?"

Harry glanced around, their gazes locked, and his chin jutted up a little.

"I don't like your regime, sir. I think you're a tyrant, and a bully, and that getting noticed by the most powerful wizard in the country cannot possibly mean anything good for me."

He turned and left. Voldemort watched him go, head tilting a little to one side.

He thought the boy wasn't entirely wrong about that.

A slow smile crossed his lips.

* * *

_A/N: I am not a lyricist, so I apologize if my song snippet is absolutely awful and makes you cringe. I hope you enjoyed the chapter anyway. Reviews would be much appreciated :) _


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